Brains: A Zombie Memoir

by Becker

  The boat was sinking, but the tide and the wind kept moving us westward. Flat on my stomach, elbow over elbow at zombie speed, clutching the final sign, I reached the bow and placed it on the railing.

  “WE ARE YOU!” I wanted to shout it from the treetops: Just as humans came from apes, we came from humans. We are your descendants; that makes you our ancestors. Our fathers and mothers.

  No one is alone. We are all connected.

  The wind blew and pushed both the sign and boat forward; I held steady. They had to know.

  A loudspeaker crackled.

  “Attention,” a voice said. “This is Lieutenant Bill Davis of the provisional United States Army. Surrender your weapons.”

  “Not very friendly,” Ros said.

  Joan grabbed the rifle out of Annie’s cold dead hands and pulled herself over to me, resting the weapon on the railing next to my sign.

  The object and its representation. The thing and its sign. The gun and the word.

  Sticks and stones may break my bones…

  I put my arm around Joan. Our healer, our saint. The goddess who kept us alive—yes, alive, not undead or living dead or stenches or corpses or rotters, but living beings.

  Cogito, ergo sum. That’s Zombie Descartes, of course. I think, therefore I am.

  “Stand up,” Lieutenant Davis commanded, the PA distorting his voice. “Stand where we can see you.”

  I shook my head at Joan. My eyes were pleading with her because her eyes had light in them, were filled with love. Like the first time I saw her, months ago, when Ros caged her like cattle and I rejoiced to find another like me.

  “Don’t stand,” Ros said. “They’ll shoot you.”

  Joan stroked my hair, a chunk of which came out in her hand. She tried to smile, I could tell, but her face remained immobile, a death mask.

  I heard violins swelling as Joan rose to her knees; we all winced when her suede-covered bite site hit the deck. She put her hands on the rail and hoisted herself up to stand on the bow—a matron, a caretaker, everyone’s mother. And without a doubt, a zombie.

  She flashed the humans the peace sign.

  “Identify yourself,” Davis said.

  She pointed to my sign. WE ARE YOU.

  Somewhere on shore, a bazooka discharged, followed by a smattering of bullets. The boat rocked and Joan almost lost her footing.

  “Hold your fire!” Davis yelled.

  What a coward I was, hiding from the humans, cowering behind the wooden planks of the boat like a child under the covers, afraid of the dark. Joan looked down at me and this time she did crack a smile. The clouds shifted or the sun moved or the earth tilted and a halo formed behind her head.

  From her nurse’s pocket she removed a handgun, stuck it in her mouth, and blew her brains out. Her eyes never left mine.

  Saint Joan, sacrificial lamb, she was stronger than we were. She refused to be captured by the enemy; she remained the mistress of her own fate.

  Ros and I wailed; we ululated like Middle Eastern women whose children have been killed by taxis. Joan and the handgun and my sign fell to the deck.

  “Get Stein,” I heard Davis bark. “Now!”

  My stomach jumped at the mention of our creator. I felt Lucy’s sweet meat moving inside me. And Pete’s brain in my bowels and my boss’s pudgy flesh and A. J. Riley’s bullet-ridden cerebellum. Every human I’d munched on, all the entrails I’d savored, they were a part of me now, as integral as my own intellect.

  Ros clutched my sleeve. “Stein?” he said. “Pete said he was dead.”

  The stern hit the bottom of the harbor. The boat stopped sinking and settled. There wasn’t much separating us physically from the humans now: the bow, twenty feet of water, and the pier. Ontologically, there was a chasm: beating hearts, digestive tracts, and sexual reproduction; architecture, Hello Kitty, and barbecue pork rinds.

  But under the right conditions, zombies have something humans will never have: eternity. And at that moment, we had hope.

  Howard Stein was coming in our greatest hour of need. He was a man of reason. A scientist. Surely he believed in Enlightenment ideals. Surely he’d help his creation.

  “What should we do?” Ros asked.

  I held my hand up, palm facing Ros, the traffic cop’s signal to wait.

  “I should try to talk to them,” he said.

  I shook my head no.

  “But once they know I can speak, they can’t kill us.”

  I didn’t trust the military. I remembered Hurricane Katrina. Those Americans could speak. In fact, those Americans held up signs just as I had. Stranded on rooftops, the floodwater rising. Help us, the signs said. Save us.

  “Can they?” Ros asked, rubbing his hands together, worrying them. “Would they?”

  I put my hand on Ros’s shoulder and nodded.

  Tuskegee, Guantánamo, the crucifixion.

  Ros stood up and saluted. “Private Drake, reporting for duty, sir!” he shouted, his voice deep and wavering, an underwater tuba.

  Drake? To me, he’ll always be Rosencrantz.

  “Stand down, private,” Davis said into the bullhorn. “Get back on deck.”

  Ros slumped next to me. “They don’t care,” he said.

  A helicopter circled us. I looked through my binoculars at it and saw someone looking back. The hunter and the hunted; the gaze and its object; exhibitionist and voyeur—I didn’t know which one I was anymore.

  “Wish I still had on my uniform,” Ros said. “That would show them.”

  I grabbed my sign; it was wet and limp, the letters blurry but still legible. I held it up for the men in the helicopter.

  WE ARE YOU. That statement should end all wars: Christian vs. Muslim; White vs. Black; North vs. South; Bear vs. Shark. Us vs. Them.

  Zombie vs. Man.

  The helicopter hovered for a moment, then angled left and flew away. The first streaks of red appeared in the clouds, bathing Joan’s splattered brains in crimson. Behind the skyscrapers, the sun was setting.

  I took out paper and a pen. It was time to finish my masterpiece.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  THE STARS LIT the sky like so many dynamos. The electric glow of Chicago was lost to the postapocalyptic power-plant shutdown; the lap of the water lulled Ros into near-catatonia. He was drooling in the bright moonlight, his vacant eyes closed in an imitation of sleep.

  As for me, I worked on my treatise: A Vindication of the Rights of the Post-Living.

  Because this was America, the City on the Hill, where everyone’s inalienable rights were endowed by their creator. And my creator was on his way.

  Let justice roll down like water and righteousness like a mighty stream!

  I saw the boat approaching and my shoulder tingled, but I ignored them both, intent on scribbling the letters and words that represent the greatest concepts we can imagine: democracy, truth, equality.

  “Hellooo?” a voice called. “This is Dr. Stein. Are you friend or foe?”

  Ros stirred and tried to stand but I blocked him with my arm.

  “Friend,” Ros said.

  “Man or zombie?”

  “Zombie.”

  “Can you be both?”

  Ros stood up, turned on a sloppy dime, and saluted. “Private Dennis Drake, reporting for duty.”

  “Mother of God,” another voice said, and I heard guns being cocked.

  “No need to overreact, gentlemen,” Stein said. “I don’t expect any trouble from these zombies.”

  I gathered my courage, tucked away my document, and made my stand next to Ros. Dr. Stein was perched on the bow of a sightseeing boat, the kind that takes visitors on sunset tours around the lake. He was surrounded by men with guns. A cane rested between his legs like a third limb, both his hands gripping the top. His hair and beard were long and white. He looked like Walt Whitman or Father Time.

  I held the sign in front of me like a life preserver. A light shone on it.

  “We are you,” Stein read, and chu
ckled. “I suppose you are.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Ros.

  “And who are you, exactly?” Stein asked.

  “Just me and the captain left, sir.”

  I threw my shoulders back and nodded at Stein, looked him square in the eye, communicating that we were both men of letters, rational, well-bred.

  “There were more?” Stein asked.

  “All dead.”

  “But you’re dead, aren’t you, Dennis?”

  “Just a little.” Ros looked at me. His eyes were hungry, desperate. “Pete said you were dead,” he continued, licking his lips with his dry stick of a tongue.

  “Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated. The more recent myths have me turned into the king of zombies. I’ve also been thrown from a fire escape and eaten by infected dogs.” Stein paused. “Who’s Pete?” he asked.

  “Nobody. Anymore.”

  “For someone just a little bit dead, you’re in remarkable shape. Do you have a doctor? A caregiver? Someone responsible for your upkeep?”

  “Nurse. She shot herself in the head.”

  Stein bowed his head in sympathy. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.

  Ros pulled me down behind the railing. “Help me,” he whispered. His eyes were yellowing like an old newspaper. He curled into a fetal position. “Brains,” he whined.

  I put my sign aside and embraced Ros. My brother-in-arms. My only friend.

  Stein tapped on the boat.

  “Private Drake,” he called, “can I assist you in any way?”

  Ros stood up, clicking his heels together. “Brains!” he wailed, and buried his face in his hands.

  “There, there,” Stein said. “It’s not your fault. This should calm your stomach. For now.”

  He threw Ros a calf’s liver and Ros shoved the whole thing in his mouth. Blood dripped on my head, and the killer inside me roared.

  “I have something for your friend too,” Stein said.

  I am not your trained monkey, I wanted to shout. I am a PhD!

  Nevertheless I stood up and held out my hand like a beggar.

  Oh, humility! This was the moment when I should hand Stein my treatise; we would match wits and establish sympathy; empathy, love, and protection would be born. Cheeks would be turned, neighbors loved, peace agreements signed.

  The American dream realized. Its promises fulfilled.

  No such luck: Stein tossed me some pig intestines and I stuffed them in my mouth the long way, not even bothering to chew, sucking them in like linguini.

  “Let me tell you a story,” Stein said, “while you dine.” He cleared his throat. I didn’t look up from my meal. “Once upon a time,” he began, “there was a scorpion, and this scorpion asked a fox to carry him across a rushing river.

  “‘But you’ll sting me,’ the fox protested.

  “‘If I did that,’ the scorpion replied, ‘we’d both drown. Since I need to cross the river, it wouldn’t serve my interests to sting you. Have no fear. I’ll refrain.’

  “The fox agreed. He certainly couldn’t argue with the scorpion’s logic. But a funny thing happened: Halfway across the river, the scorpion stung him anyway.

  “‘Why?’ the fox asked as they both drowned.

  “‘It’s my nature. I’m a scorpion.’”

  I stopped swallowing.

  “You boys are scorpions,” Stein said. “Do you understand me?”

  I understood: Dogs chase cats. Bees make honey. Humans wage war. Zombies eat humans. No free will. And no compromises.

  There was an old lady who swallowed a fly. We all know why she swallowed the fly. And now she’ll die.

  “There have been others like you,” Stein said.

  “I know. I collected them,” Ros said, his face bloody. He looked like a greeting card photo of a baby covered with spaghetti sauce, the bowl on top of baby’s head, a few noodles hanging down, and a caption reading: I Didn’t Do It!

  “Each of you proved the viability of my theory,” Stein said, “that no one has to die.”

  “Where are they now?” Ros asked.

  Stein made a sweeping gesture with his hand, as if the night held answers. As if the man in the moon cared. “My son,” he said, “nothing has worked out as planned.”

  The best laid plans of mice and men…again and again and again.

  “It was to be a new beginning,” he continued, the cane impotent and resting against his leg. “Not an army of automatons or an enemy of man, but a new race, one with the potential to live indefinitely. One that wouldn’t require food or shelter or gasoline or television. One that wouldn’t waste natural resources.” Stein looked up. “The virus wasn’t ready when they unleashed it. Not even close.” His eyes shone in the flashlight beam. They were the brown of mud, of dirt, of the clay with which he made us.

  “Dr. Stein,” one of the soldiers said with a note of warning in his voice, his eyes and rifle trained on Ros, who was twitching and contorting and moaning. Falling into character. Becoming the scorpion he was.

  Stein shook his head, clearing it. “The military wanted to ship you to the desert. Turn you into soldiers for their war. But all hell broke loose first.”

  “Father,” Ros gurgled.

  “I have failed miserably. Our only choice is to give in, give up, submit.”

  “Save…us,” Ros said. He grabbed my hand and held tight.

  “It’s too late for that,” Stein continued, rubbing his forehead with his hand. “You’re both prime specimens, and at first we tried to help your kind. We sought you out and brought you to our labs. We conducted experiments using positive and negative reinforcement, trying to teach you right from wrong. We had some success, but, well, Private Drake here, his behavior is typical.”

  Ros glanced my way; his eyes were as yellow as stomach bile. He was vibrating, a Holy Roller about to speak in tongues, the secret language, the word of God.

  “BRAINS!” he yelled, and catapulted himself over the bow, heading straight for Stein.

  It was a graceful dive, a swan dive, Olympic worthy. The soldiers opened fire; bullets pinged against Ros’s metal trapdoor of a head and bullets penetrated his cranium, but Ros continued flying, free as any bird. And Stein, our father who art an old boob in a boat, stood up with open arms to receive him.

  Ros knocked the mad scientist over; they landed on a bench seat, Stein bent over backward like a doll, embracing Ros, and Ros was really dead now, his brains scattered into the lake, no better—or worse—than chum.

  Food for the worms. Ashes to ashes. The great beyond. A better place. Doggie heaven. All that rot. Pun intended.

  I took a step back. Two soldiers tended to the good doctor; the remaining three turned to me, guns, rifles, pistols cocked.

  “I’m fine,” Stein said, pushing Ros’s corpse off of him and standing up. “How’s the other one?”

  I held my hands over my head as if I were being arrested. The classic pose of submission. I raised one finger in the air and slowly moved my other arm. From my professor pocket, I pulled out my treatise, holding it between two fingers. I shook it at Stein.

  “Looks like someone wants to tell us something,” a soldier said.

  Stein gave me the once-over, taking in my tattered tweed jacket and tarp of a torso, my pus-filled skull of a face, the rusted sores and scant strands of hair, and the crumpled and water-stained piece of paper in my hand.

  “You think you’re different, don’t you, son?” he said, crossing his arms over his bulletproof vest.

  I unfolded the paper and held it out so that the words faced Stein, as if they were an incantation or a spell. The password primeval. The sign of democracy. Somewhere in the city, there was an explosion and a barrage of machine-gun fire. The soldiers tensed and a radio squawked.

  “Let’s hope so,” Stein said, nodding at the men. “Bring it here.”

  One of the soldiers approached me, and I smelled his brains, his musk, like fresh-baked bread, wild honeysuckle, Sunday-morning bacon. H
is helmet was too big for him; it covered all of his head and most of his face too. I didn’t dare look at his eyes. I extended my arm and he snatched the document.

  Stein put on a pair of reading glasses and sat down. “‘A Vindication of the Rights of the Post-Living,’” he said. “‘By Professor Jack Barnes.’ Impressive title.”

  I lowered my head in a gesture of modesty.

  Stein skimmed my manifesto, nodding his head occasionally. “Justice,” he murmured. “Equality. True democracy. Hmmm. An analogy to slavery and suffrage. Very well written, Professor Barnes. Displaying a high degree of memory and cognition. There’s no denying your intelligence.”

  Stein pointed to a passage near the end. “Here’s the part that disturbs me, though. The part that punches a hole in your argument,” he said, looking at me from over the top of his glasses. “‘Life, liberty, and the pursuit of brains,’” he continued. “Why did you write that, Jack?”

  The soldiers laughed and stuck their arms out, murmuring, “Brains, brains,” in a cruel parody of my people’s behavior. I put my hands together in the prayer position.

  “Enough!” Stein said, and the soldiers stopped clowning. “I can’t stand to look at him anymore. Standing in front of me like a supplicant. As if I can protect him. Look, Jack, here’s the cold truth: You’re a by-product of biological warfare. A high-functioning by-product, but a by-product nevertheless. You’re a mistake. Something out of Frankenstein.”

  I fell to my knees.

  “You and I are mortal enemies,” Stein continued. “And your compromise solution is absurd. We can’t allow you to eat any of us because you won’t stop there. Can’t you see? If you’re the lion, then I’m the gazelle. You’re the spider; I’m the fly. The scorpion and the fox. No matter what you do, no matter how well you write or reason, you will always be a scorpion.”

  So words mean nothing: Freedom is the same as chair is the same as love is the same as Fruity Pebbles is the same as justice.

  There’s only one word with any meaning and I willed myself to say it:

  “Braaaaaains!” I howled, and the effort hurt—my diaphragm, my throat, my stopped and broken heart.

  From behind me, as if resurrected by my miraculous utterance, there was a banshee yell, a war cry, and Annie, dear undead Annie, came charging up the little hill of the half-sunken Maria Sangria.